


The Love Bomb Strikes

by Durrant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Dom Sherlock, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M, Riding Crops, Rough Sex, Slapping, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durrant/pseuds/Durrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hospital where Dr Watson is recuperating is attacked with Neutrophin gas, the so-called Love Bomb, that makes those who inhale it go mad with lust. Luckily, a rather attractive stranger happens to be nearby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Reports are coming in of attacks across London. Neutrophin gas attacks, the so-called Love Bombs, have occurred in three hos -”_

“Well, some people get all the luck, don’t they, Mr Pemberton?” John joked. The eighty year old was still fast asleep from his surgery that morning. Even before the surgery the old man hadn’t been aware enough to actually talk to John. 

_“ - police are trying contain the crowds but there have already been several reported incidents of sexual assault. The public have been asked to remain calm and - “_

“Jesus,” John muttered, shocked and feeling a little guilty for being so flippant before, even if Mr Pemberton hadn’t been able to hear him. He’d been stuck in this hospital bed for ages and he was going out of his mind with boredom; his only companion might be a comatose eighty year old but he was still going to talk to the man. He turned to apologise and saw smoke streaming under the door. John tried to scramble out of bed, trying to put his weight on his good leg despite the pain.

The door swung open and a tall man barrelled into the room, barely glancing at John and Mr. Pemberton before he began barricading the door behind him. John tried to avert his eyes as the man’s long limbs hauled an empty bed in front of the door. Part of John’s brain vaguely registered that he’d never been embarrassed to watch another man like this, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. He’d never found a man attractive before but just watching this man move was making him hard. John closed his eyes and tried to will away the arousal that was coiling in his belly.

“We’ve both been exposed to Neutrophin gas,” the man said, suddenly looming over his bedside. John’s eyes flew open and he tried not to look at the man’s beautiful lips. He had to control himself. He couldn’t think clearly, not when he was so turned on and this beautiful person with his amazing voice was leaning over him. 

“You know what that means. Surely we can come to some sort of understanding. You’re a soldier, a practical man,” the man grinned at him. 

“How..?” John gulped. How could this man possibly know he was a soldier? He could barely form the question though, he was so distracted by the way this man was looking at him. Almost as if he, nondescript little John, was someone to be lusted after. 

“Oh, I can tell all sorts of things, just by looking at you. Let’s make a deal, you and I. Let me fuck you and I’ll use all my powers of deduction to give you exactly what you want. I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

John wanted to pull away from the stranger. He’d never slept with a man before, but he was pretty certain that if he ever did then he would top. Plus, what was this man talking about? His powers of deduction? He sounded ridiculous. John opened his mouth to refuse but somehow the words came out all wrong.

“I don’t know your name,” John said, his body on autopilot. He’d never been so horny in his life and right now he’d take anything he could get. Even this rather odd stranger who happened to be the most beautiful man he’d even seen in his life. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man winked at him, as if he could sense already that John would accept him. John squirmed, his cock was as hard as it had ever been. It was starting to physically hurt him and John couldn’t take any more. 

“God, yes!” John groaned pushing off the hospital sheets. Sherlock stood almost preternaturally still and then, as soon as John had thrown off all the bed sheets, he pounced. Sherlock leapt up onto the bed and came to rest above John. Sherlock’s body hovered just above him, barely touching him. For such a tall man he moved with a speed and agility that made John moan. He needed to come but Sherlock wasn’t keeping his side of the bargain. Why wasn’t Sherlock touching him?

“Sherlo -” John broke off as Sherlock finally settled his weight fully down onto John. A hard cock pushed into his crotch, the thin material of his hospital gown was no protection at all. 

“Hush,” Sherlock commanded, although his voice cracked slightly and John remembered something desperately important.

“We...Condoms?” John stammered as Sherlock rubbed against his crotch. John hadn’t been this close to coming without taking his clothes off since he’d been a teenager. 

“You agreed to my deal. My terms. We’re both clean,” Sherlock said, his deep voice making John shiver as the man nuzzled into John’s neck. 

“You can’t possibly know -” John began, the absurdity of Sherlock’s claim breaking through the fog of his desire. He hadn’t even finished his sentence before Sherlock reacted; he bit into John’s neck. Fuck, he had to be bleeding, Sherlock was biting so hard. John felt his whole body go limp and the arms that he had raised to push Sherlock away, fell slackly onto the bed. 

It hurt. The pain never turned to pleasure but, for the first time since he’d left Afghanistan, John stopped thinking. All his worries and his guilt scattered away and all that was left was Sherlock’s mouth on his neck and Sherlock’s cock pressing down and rubbing into him. It was too much. With a scream, he came. His spunk catching in the hospital gown he hadn’t yet had the chance to take off. 

Sherlock slowly pulled away from him. John closed his eyes as he rode out the end of his orgasm. The drug must have made it more intense than usual, because he had never felt like this before. His whole body felt limp and sated. 

“My turn,” Sherlock crowed, his triumphant voice sounded loud over John’s panted breaths. John nodded vaguely. Sherlock was right, after all. They had made a deal and John was a man of his word. 

Long fingers pulled the hospital gown off him, but John could only grunt through his lethargy. His legs were pushed up and wet fingers prodded roughly at his hole. It was enough of a surprise to jolt John awake.

“Be careful,” John muttered. Sherlock glared up at him and jabbed a finger inside him.

“My rules,” he hissed. He looked half-crazed; it had to be the Neutrophin gas, effecting Sherlock so much because he had yet to come. 

Sherlock pulled away and began stroking himself with whatever he was using for lube. It was his come, John realised in horror. That couldn’t possibly work. 

Sherlock braced his hands against John’s hips and he realised that Sherlock didn’t intend to prepare him any more than he already had. This might be his first time but he understood enough about the mechanics of gay sex to know that this couldn’t possibly be enough stretching to prepare for penetration. 

“Wait!” John yelled, his command turning into a scream as Sherlock pushed into him, breaching him and stealing the last of John’s virginity. Finally, when he’d bottomed out, Sherlock was still. 

“Just,” Sherlock panted, his face was wet with sweat yet his tone was imperious, “Just relax, and it won’t hurt.”

John tried. He bit back the sarcastic retort and tried to make himself relax, but as soon as he relaxed slightly, Sherlock pulled quickly out of him and pounded back in. He was too fast, each movement merciless and cruel and John knew he should resist. He should throw Sherlock off him for treating him in such a degrading manner. But he didn’t. He lay there and took it.

He’d never known how empty he was until he was, quite suddenly, filled. But it was more than that. He’d already come and he was too old to come again so soon. Now it was Sherlock’s turn and what Sherlock wanted was to use John’s body. He could feel the man’s cock moving inside him, pushing him, demeaning him. All he could do was close his eyes and let Sherlock use him

John felt himself harden again and he couldn’t allow it. He would not be turned on by this. He kicked his legs and tried to shove Sherlock off. 

Sherlock pitched forward, his cock still pounding into John’s arse, and, without even breaking his rhythm, he backhanded John across the face. 

_”Yes!”_ Sherlock yelled and was coming. Into John’s body. John could feel the man’s cock twitching and spasming inside him as if John were nothing but a receptacle for this man’s spunk. The though shouldn’t have been so arousing. His own cock gave another, hopeful, twitch but John didn’t want anymore. He wanted this to be over. He wanted Sherlock gone so he could return to his own normal life, where he never questioned his sexuality and never, ever slept with women who didn’t even know his name. 

Sherlock slowly pulled out of him. John tried to ignore the dampness and the cold, unbearable feeling of emptiness. The man was still fully dressed. He hadn’t even bothered to disrobe, even though John was lying here naked and cold. John closed his eyes as Sherlock got out of the bed. He heard the sound of a zip being done up. 

Hot lips pressed down on his temple and John jerked away. Sherlock had kissed him! It seemed like such an incongruous thing to do. So completely out of character with the rest of their encounter. 

“You were...” Sherlock hesitated, looking unsure of himself and a world away from the confident man who had first walked into John’s room, “Fascinating.”

John blinked in surprise. It was a strange compliment to give someone. 

“Thank you,” John said, surprised at how much the compliment affected him. He was so used to being seen as _dull_ John Watson, it was rather pleasant to think that this man, even though he was a total stranger, thought that he was fascinating. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say though. It seemed odd to just let this man walk away after what they’d just done, but, after all, they would never have touched each other if it hadn’t been for the Neutrophin gas. Sherlock gazed at him, as if he expected John to say something else. When nothing else was forthcoming, Sherlock began moving aside the various things that he had piled in front of the door to act as a barricade. John watched him in silence. 

Finally, the doorway was cleared. Sherlock threw him one last glance and then, with a slight nod, he pulled open the door and was gone. 

John sighed and got up in search of his hospital gown. 

“Well,” John muttered to himself, after he had dressed and firmly ensconced himself back in bed and safely under the sheets, “That’s not something that happens everyday.”

Mr. Pemberton groaned quietly in reply.


	2. Chapter 2

“I just want to take your statement, and then Sergeant Pearson is going to sit with you for a bit until everything’s been sorted.”

“Alright,” John pulled the sheets tighter around him. A few short hours ago he’d had sex on this bed. “I don’t really understand what for, though.”

“Well, this drug is very new and, legally, we’re on very shaky ground. Do you want to press charges?”

“No,” John answered too quickly, he didn’t want to tell this man, this stranger, how he had lain in his hospital bed for hours, unable to stop thinking about Sherlock Holmes. “No, it’s fine.”

The silver haired policeman relaxed a little. He supposed he was making the man’s job a little easier. 

“So, lets start from the beginning, shall we?”

“Well, I was just watching the news and, er, then I saw this gas coming in from under the door.”

“Did you..Were you affected?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m not gay!” John didn’t like the vehemence he heard in his own voice. He knew he wasn’t gay, he didn’t need to convince some stranger of that. “But..I..”

“It’s alright. The Neutrophin seems to make men more aggressive,” Lestrade gestured to the dried blood on John’s neck, “People do things they wouldn’t otherwise.”

John nodded listlessly. The gas hadn’t made him more aggressive; in fact, he had been almost subservient to Sherlock. Of course, he would have never normally have unprotected sex with a stranger. Would never bottom for some unknown man. But now he had, and he couldn’t say that he regretted it. 

“So, what happened next?”

* * *

The bedsit was tiny, the furniture cheap and walls beige coloured. It looked like it had been designed to induce depression. He supposed he could decorate, put some pictures up or something; but right now he couldn’t seem to find the energy to do so. It didn’t really matter what he put on the wall, it would still be the same flat, his same dull life. 

This place was a world away from what his life had been before. The heat of the Afghan sun and constant thrum of danger; the structure of the army and reassurance of the chain of command. It seemed like waking from a dream, the difference between his life then and his life now. John filled the small, cheap kettle and turned it on before realising that there wouldn’t be any teabags. He opened the cupboards to check and found them empty. 

Leaning heavily on his cane, he left his flat and stepped out into the grey skyed safety of London in search of tea bags and milk.

* * *

“You’ve been out of hospital for a week now, how are you settling into your new place?” Ella asked, her voice coolly professional. John shrugged, dragging his eyes away from the window and the cloudy sky outside to focus on his therapist. She scribbled a note on her pad, but John didn’t bother to try and read it upside down. 

“What have you been up to this week?”

John started to shrug again, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to behave like a sullen teenager, but these sessions seemed so pointless. 

“Not much. Settling into the flat...I try to get out for a walk everyday, explore the area, you know?”

Ella made a noncommittal noise and jotted something else down in her notes.

“Are you thinking about looking for a job?”

“Oh, well. Soon. I mean, I can’t not work forever, and my physio says I’m making great progress. But...With my shoulder, I’ll never operate again. I can work as a GP. Looking at people with sore throats and runny noses all day.”

John silenced himself and went back to looking out of the window. There was nothing wrong with being a GP. There was something wrong with missing the war; missing treating men with blood gushing out of them; of saving lives and always knowing that he was useful. That he was serving his country and that he was valuable. He shouldn’t want that though. He should be happy to be back in London. 

“Do you know any surgeries that are looking for GPs?”

“I haven’t looked,” John said, not looking away from the window as it began to drizzle outside, the water droplets obscuring the glass. 

“Have you met up with any family or friends since you’ve been back?”

“Well, my sister came to see me in the hospital. And my sister-in-law came the day after. I don’t really know anyone else in London.”

“No? No army buddies?”

John shrugged again. 

“Do you think you’re ready to talk about the Neutrophin incident yet?”

John’s eyes snapped to the therapist. 

“No.”

“John, you’re becoming more withdrawn. What happened was nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of people are dealing with the things that happened that day, but you need to talk to about them to do that.”

Except, he wasn’t ashamed. For the first time since he’d been shot, he’d felt good. Useful and valued, but more than that. Sherlock’s voice echoed through his head every night as he lay in bed. _You were fascinating._ He had never been fascinating before. He was the dull one, the staid one who faded into the background and made sure everyone else was alright. The boy who took responsibility of his alcoholic mother and the man who was responsible for the health of everyone around him. He’d never inspired _hunger_ like he’d seen in Sherlock Holmes that day. 

“It was the drug. I know that everything that happened was because of the drug.”

Ella nodded, looking satisfied. 

“Exactly, you can’t blame yourself for what happened. It wasn’t about you.”

John didn’t bother to shrug. He wished that weren’t true. He wished Sherlock had genuinely wanted him.

* * *

“Did you drive here?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that, Johnny! I brought you a present! See, it’s a nearly brand new phone! Now you don’t have an excuse not to call me _everyday_.”

John took the phone, recognising it as the one that Harry had had when she’d visited him in hospital; a gift from Clara. He did need one, and perhaps one less reminder of Harry’s ex would be good for her anyway. 

“Thank you,” John said, sitting next to his sister on the small, uncomfortable sofa. She’d changed whilst he’d been away. Her once youthful face had gained the same alcoholic flush that their mother had had.

“And I have another present,” Harry crowed, taking a bottle of wine out of her large bag and setting it on the coffee table. “Now don’t get all uppity, we’ll have a little drink together and we’ll have a nice chat. So don’t get all serious. “

John frowned but Harry jumped in before he could say anything. 

“I didn’t drive here! I took the bus, alright? So just climb down off your moral high horse and have a drink with your sister.”

“Alright,” John said resignedly as he stood to fetch two glasses. Harry twisted off the cap of the wine bottle and watched his limp speculatively.

“You know, I do know that your hospital was hit by a love bomb,” Harry wheedled as she poured generous measures of wine into both their glasses. “You don’t have to hide it from me. And if you wanted to talk, then you know I’m the last person in the world to ever judge you.”

John took a sip of wine. It had been chilled and it was still cold enough that the cheapness was mostly disguised. He still grimaced at the taste. Harry gulped back a large sip, then put her glass down and leant back on the sofa. 

“Was it that bad? I saw a documentary on how love bombs work and there’s nothing you could have done. Once it’s in your system, you just have to - ”

“Harry, stop. Yeah, I was affected. I...There was this bloke…”

Harry blinked blearily, her head slumping as she watched him. 

“A bloke?” she smiled clumsily. “You never said..”

“It wasn’t what you’re thinking!” John said, staring down at his wine glass. “I felt… I felt like I belonged. I’m not gay, but it wasn’t even about the sex. The sex was just...another way of belonging, if that makes sense. And he was rough. But that was alright too, because it was, sort of like, he was taking the time to…” John trailed off. He must sound mad. Cautiously, he glanced up to see Harry’s reaction. She had fallen asleep. John sighed and carried the glasses to the sink. He wished he could fall asleep so easily.

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes_

John typed carefully; the library was practically empty at this time of day. A few old men sat and read newspapers, but otherwise he was alone. He rather liked it like that. 

Sherlock had a website, and, although it made fascinating reading, the thing that struck John the most was that Sherlock had posted his home address. John could contact him anytime he wanted. God, he could even email him right now!

It was an overwhelming thought.

Sherlock lived in Baker Street. He could walk there in ten minutes; well, if his leg worked properly he could. As it was, he could walk there in half an hour. After all, his only other plans for the day were going back to the flat and watching daytime TV. 

He could stay in the library and use this computer for an hour for free, but it seemed pointless now. There wasn’t anything else he needed, now that he had Sherlock’s address. Standing, he gathered his things and left, limping slowly. He was walking towards Baker Street before he even realised it. 

Of course, he wasn’t going to go in search of the man; he wasn’t going to knock on his front door or anything. But it was an irresistible draw. Any second, he would turn back and go home to his little beige bedsit. He just wanted to get a little closer first. It felt like he he had been missing something and finally, finally, he was going to get the hit he needed. 

221 Baker Street looked like any other London town house, but this was where _he_ lived. John walked past the door. He couldn’t bring himself to knock. Just being this close was enough. 

By the time he got back to his pokey bedsit, he was hot and sweaty; his leg painful after so much exertion. John stripped off to shower and caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His body was crippled, a shell of what it had once been but he felt even worse than normal. His hands were clammy and shaking; he felt more like he was returning to base after a patrol than coming home from a stroll around London. Restless and apprehensive. Frantic, even. 

His shower didn’t change anything but John had no idea how to calm down. It was like he had a physical need and no idea how to satisfy it. Feverish. Like an addict in need of his next hit, but John couldn’t work out what he was craving. 

Lying down in his narrow bed didn’t help. His mind ran from one idea to the next, leaving him feeling just as unsettled as ever. 

John knew he was a pragmatist. He’d had gay sex with a man he found attractive; if that meant he was gay, then so be it. But that wasn’t enough. He tried to imagine what it would have been like with a different man. What it could be like to let someone else, someone other than Sherlock, bugger him. It was an interesting thought, but it didn’t quench the physical need that was coursing through him. 

What if it had been more than the sex? That beautiful feeling of having been owned, of someone else taking control, even if it was only for a few short minutes. That was what he wanted. What he needed.

* * *

He didn’t mean to go back to Baker Street. It was just, with no appointment with either his therapist or his physio, his day was entirely empty. He had intended to go back to the library, to start looking for a job, but somehow, when he found himself in the open air, he’d felt an itch to go back to Baker Street. Just to walk past the place where Sherlock lived again. One last time before he got on with more important things. 

He was in sight of 221 when a taxi drew up next to him, but John didn’t pay it any attention. He was far too busy keeping his eyes on 221, just in case Sherlock was looking out of his window, or coming out of his front door. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Sherlock Holmes was in front of him; leaping out of the taxi and shoving a handful of notes at the driver. He was just as tall and imposing and dangerously beautiful as he had been that afternoon in the hospital. 

“Dr Watson,” the man’s baritone sounded just as he remembered it, but now he was saying John’s name and it was so much more erotic. “I wondered when I’d see you again. You may as well follow me, I don’t particularly want this filmed.” 

Then, with a swirl of his coat, Sherlock was leaving. Striding away so quickly that John had to struggle to keep up, his leg was already painful from the long walk; but somehow this was different from all his physio’s painful exercises. This was a command and John would do everything he could to obey. 

John finally caught up with him as Sherlock let himself into the nice looking townhouse; he trailed up some stairs in complete silence. Sherlock opened the door to his own flat and strode in, leaving John hovering on the threshold. The man flung his coat over a pile of boxes and disappeared. 

“Hurry up!” Sherlock yelled from the bowels of the flat. John walked in, trying to follow the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He found the man sitting ramrod straight in a winged armchair in the middle of a messy sitting room. Again, John hesitated. 

“Sit,” Sherlock barked out with a dismissive flap of his hand. John startled a little, but then gripped his cane and moved to sit on a ratty looking sofa opposite Sherlock. This wasn’t the army, he didn’t need to jump to follow orders. Still, there was an ease to it, a simplicity to it, that was comforting. Sherlock leaned forward and steepled his fingers, as if John had done something interesting. 

“You didn’t come here for an apology,” Sherlock said, sounding confused and annoyed. 

“Er..no.”

“Good, because I don’t intend to offer you one. You clearly agreed to what happened between us, and I will not be grateful that you decided to avoid a legal minefield and not press charges.“

“I…” John found himself blushing. He’d spent so much time last night lying awake and trying to think. Perhaps he really was a submissive. Just being in Sherlock’s presence was making him feel calmer than he’d been in days. 

“I am a high functioning sociopath. I do not feel any guilt over what happened between us. You were just as much to blame as I was.“

John jerked his head up. He hadn’t had any hopes coming here today, but now he realised something new. He’d let this man fuck him, let him slap him, but Sherlock was nothing special, he was just a man. John was so frustrated he could barely stand to stay there a moment longer. He might crave, need, the bliss of submitting to someone else; but he would not let this man use him again. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I have to go now,” John was halfway to the door when Sherlock’s commanding voice rang out. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Huh?”

“I told you before. I deduced you were a soldier. Don’t make me repeat myself again, I loathe repetition.”

“I meant, how did you know that I was in Afghanistan or Iraq to begin with?”

“Your haircut and posture. Military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. Your limp is psychosomatic, the original circumstances of the injury were likely traumatic. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Thats..that amazing, actually.”

Sherlock looked surprised but quickly smirked and stood up. John pushed down the urge to back away as the taller man prowled towards him. 

“That’s not all I can deduce about you, Dr Watson. I must say, I am flattered. One encounter with me and you’re doubting your sexuality. But that’s not everything, is it?” Sherlock paused, so close now that he could have reached out and touched John. Sherlock’s finger tapped against his mouth in concentration and John had to look away. “You’d never been dominated before.”

“It was the Neutrophin,” John cried out, his voice sounding desperate even to his own ears. Stepping backwards he felt the wall behind him, but Sherlock didn’t try and follow him. Instead, he stared; tracking every one of John’s movements, like a cat about to pounce. 

“And now,” Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken, “And now you want more. To submit.”

Before John could answer, could even think about whether he wanted to deny this accusation, Sherlock had stepped forward. They weren’t quite touching, but John felt hemmed in, surrounded. Sherlock’s hand was in his hair, strong fingers yanking at him so that his face was tilted up. 

“You want to submit to me,” Sherlock growled and pressed his lips to John’s. 

John knew he should pull away. He wasn’t weak. He shouldn’t let himself be bossed around and all this talk of dominance and submission sounded like something from a bad porno. He wanted to be strong enough to tear himself away. But he wasn’t. 

Sherlock bit his lower lip. It was brutal and painful and John was sure he’d drawn blood. 

“If you want, we could come to some sort of arrangement. You know where I live; think about it, and come back within the week.”

John stumbled as Sherlock stepped backwards, releasing him. There was, indeed, a smear of blood on Sherlock’s lips. His blood. John fled, running so quickly down the stairs that it was only when he was outside and standing on the pavement, that he realised he hadn’t had to use his cane.


	3. Chapter 3

For three days, life seemed normal to John. Or as normal as life could be for an army doctor recently invalided home. 

He saw Ella and made an effort to answer her questions. He didn’t mention his encounter with Sherlock, but he told her about Harry’s visit. Ella wrote something on her notepad and John read it upside down. Apparently, according to her, he was reconnecting with his family and becoming less withdrawn. John supposed that sounded good.

His physio session didn’t go as well. John struggled through the same painful exercises as ever, while Maureen eyed his every move critically. It hurt just as much as normal, but now he knew he could move without his cane and he struggled harder and pushed himself further. 

“Do you think it’s psychosomatic?” John asked, panting at the end his session. Maureen grinned at him.

“I think you’re going to make a full recovery,” the young woman replied. Her hair was dyed purple and nothing seemed to interfere with her unconcerned attitude. “The most important thing is to keep on trying. We can’t let those muscles atrophy, now can we, Doctor?”

John thought that probably meant that she did indeed think his limp was psychosomatic. That didn’t make it any less painful. 

On the fourth day since he had seen Sherlock, things started to change. He woke tense and restless. He went through the motions of his morning routine; he showered and shaved, got dressed and made himself breakfast. The structure of the routine was soothing, but then he sat down with his tea and toast in front of him and he felt entirely lost. His day stretched ahead of him with nothing to do and a vague feeling of apprehension. When he tried to go for a walk, he found himself unconsciously heading back to Baker Street. It was difficult to make himself turn back, but he did. 

Harry came to see him again. John didn’t try and confide in her again. He doubted she would understand and she was too preoccupied with the break-up of her relationship with Clara to really notice. 

“So, she comes round, supposedly because she’d left behind a pair of earrings, but then she spent an hour yelling at me. I mean, she’s the one that left me! I hadn’t even been drinking, well, you know, barely. Just a normal amount. Just because she’s virtually a teetotaller it’s suddenly wrong that I have the occasional drink? Speaking of which, what happened to that bottle from the other night? You finish it off?”

“Yes,” John lied. Harry gave an annoyed grimace and stood up. 

“Well, I’d best be getting back. If Clara does decide to come round again, I want to be there, you know. But,” Harry paused as she pulled on her jacket, “I am here for you, too. If you want to talk. About anything. Come round to mine sometime, we’ll make a night of it. The Watson’s against the world!”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Night, Harry,” John called out as his sister let herself out. He wished there was more that he could do to help her. Part of him wanted to just grab her and shake her and ask her why she was doing this. They’d seen their mother drink herself to an early grave, why was Harry drinking so heavily when she knew where that could lead? Yeah, her situation was difficult; Harry and Clara had been together for years, but there had to be other ways to cope. He knew from bitter experience that he couldn’t force self-awareness on someone else and, even if he could, he was in no state to dish out that sort of advice. He could barely get his own thoughts in order. 

As the week progressed, John began to feel frantic again. Like a fever burning his brain and making it impossible to think straight or do anything other than pace restlessly up and down his tiny bedsit. He tried to just watch TV, to just read a newspaper. To not feel anything, to just be numb, but nothing stopped this desperate energy that was clawing at him. Whatever it was that Sherlock did to him, John knew now that that was what he needed. That sweet release. That submission. It was almost a dirty word that had to be said quietly, even within the sanctuary of his own thoughts. 

But then, just as he had accepted that he was probably not as heterosexual as he’d always thought himself, he knew that he could accept this part of himself too. He had too. He didn’t want to be this person but, for his own sanity, he’d accept it.

That didn’t mean that he had to go to Sherlock. Just because the man had awoken this need in him, did not mean that he was the only one who could cure it. He could try and find someone else. Even pay someone else. But how would he go about finding someone that he could pay to help him? 

He’d never thought he was the sort of person who would ever have anything to do with the sex industry. Maybe, if he had the internet, this would be easier. But he couldn’t go to the library and use their computer to search for...Well, whatever he was looking for. If he wanted to _submit_ to a woman, he imagined he would go to a dominatrix. Some posh woman in leather underwear who was good with a whip. He had no idea what the male equivalent of a dominatrix was even called! He thought he would prefer to go to a man, although he wasn’t sure it really mattered. 

He wasn't about to go curb crawling. The only thing he could even think of, the only way of finding someone who might offer that sort of service, were the tart cards that prostitutes left in telephone boxes.

John set out, going from telephone box to telephone box, feeling like some dirty old man as he scoured the cards for what he was looking for. Most of the cards advertised the services of women, but he was shocked at the range of services offered from _Hi! I’m Sharon, Blonde, Buxom and 19yrs!_ to _Pee on me for nearly free!!_

He’d lost count of how many telephone boxes he’d been in by the time he saw one that caught his attention. It was a small, coloured piece of paper with a drawing of a woman caning a man who had his wrists tied together, the caption read: _Bound for Pleasure, Be Tied, Teased and Pleased._

John put the number from that card in his phone. That was what he was looking for, wasn’t it? Something about it didn’t seem quite right. He didn’t _want_ to be hurt, it wasn’t like he found pain pleasing or teasing. 

He made his way back to his bedsit, clutching onto his phone, which now had two numbers in the address book. His sister’s and a prostitute’s. John felt so ridiculous he almost deleted the new number. Back in his bedsit, he agonised over his phone. Should he call this number? Was this what he wanted? He’d never thought about the ethics of prostitution before, was this something he wanted to get involved in? His finger hovered over the call button. His heart was racing; he couldn’t control the panic that seemed to bubble forth. He tried to calm himself down, but he knew he couldn’t. He needed someone else’s help. Why was he doing this? Why was he working himself up into this frenzy, when he knew that he could get exactly what he wanted from Sherlock?

Today was a week since he’d seen Sherlock. Would Sherlock still want him, when he’d told John to come back within the week and he’d already taken too long? John started, determined to go to Baker Street now. He’d already pulled on his jacket by the time he realised that it was after midnight. The whole evening had passed him by and he’d got nothing done. 

Coming to a decision seemed to calm him and, although he wished he could go to Sherlock now, it was easier to fall asleep when he knew that he would see Sherlock in the morning. 

John woke at 5am, suddenly wide and awake and excited for the day. He rushed through his morning routine and found himself sitting down to breakfast at 5:20am. Even eating his toast incredibly slowly, he was still finished within ten minutes. It was still too early to go to Baker Street. 

He turned the TV on and watched the news listlessly. The little clock on the bottom right of the TV screen seemed to hardly change at all. He watched some story about a new tax that seemed to go on forever in stultifying legalese. It was still only 5:45. 

John slumped onto his little sofa and tried to let his mind wander but all he could think about was Sherlock. How the man might react to seeing him again. What he would do to John. He touched his lips where Sherlock had bitten him. The bite itself had been small and healed so quickly that no-one had even asked him how he had got it. It was completely healed now but John pressed his finger into his lip forcefully, imagining he could still feel Sherlock’s mark. The feeling soothed him and he settled in to watch the news, letting the calm voices drift over him. 

John woke with a start. He hadn’t slept well all week, yet somehow he’d fallen asleep on his sofa. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 9:30. It felt terribly late. John grabbed his coat and raced out of the bedsit as fast as his limp would allow. 

His leg was throbbing by the time he got to Baker Street. As he got closer to 221, John slowed down. His website had said that Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective. Did that mean he would be home at 10am on a weekday? The closer he got, the more doubts and questions John began to have. No matter what, he couldn’t spend another lifeless week like the one that he had just passed. He needed what Sherlock was offering and that certainty was the only thing that kept him going. 

The front door of 221 was unlocked and he let himself in, making his way slowly upstairs to knock on the door of 221b. 

The door opened, but it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes standing there. Instead, it was the policeman who had taken John’s statement in the hospital. In the background he could hear the discordant notes of some piece of contemporary classical music. He struggled to remember the man’s name. It seemed so long ago that he had seen him, but it had been less than a fortnight. The sudden appearance of this man seemed to make his usually reliable brain stutter. 

“Detective Lestrade,” John said, finally remembering. Even he could hear the relief in his voice as he spoke, but it wasn’t relief to see the man, it was relief that his brain had not completely betrayed him. 

“Detective Inspector,” the policeman corrected, frowning at John. “It’s Dr Watson, isn’t it?”

John nodded and tried to look over Lestrade’s shoulder. There was no sign of Sherlock. He squeezed his cane nervously. 

“Can I help you, doctor?” Lestrade asked, still frowning.

“Actually, I was looking for Sherlock Holmes,” John said pleasantly, this time his voice came out sounding much better; like how he thought he used to sound. Calm and confident. Lestrade looked even more worried. 

“Oh. Did he do anything? I mean, has he done anything to you since the incident in the hospital? Because - “

“No,” John interrupted loudly. The music in the background stopped abruptly. “No, everything’s fine.”

There was a clatter and John realised that Sherlock had been playing the violin, and was now putting it down. Lestrade glanced behind him for a second and then turned back to John, leaning forward conspiratorially. The policeman opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was lost as Sherlock approached them. He seemed taller to John, more beautiful but slightly less human. 

“John,” he purred, his glinting eyes fixed on John. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

John’s eyes widened and he felt himself blushing. 

“You, er, said to come back.”

“Within the week, John, within the week.”

John shifted awkwardly, trying not to fidget with the handle of his cane as Lestrade eyed him with a look that was half worry and half curiosity. 

“Oh...Is it too late now, then?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head knowingly, his eyes still fixed on John’s face. 

“You can leave now, Lestrade,” Sherlock voice was commanding and John had to press his lips together to repress the shudder that tone invoked in him. 

“Alright,” Lestrade glanced uneasily between the two of them, frowning but John had no time to worry about that when Sherlock was staring at him so intently, as if he was the most important thing in the world and he could deduce every thought in his head. “Alright, I’ll ask Bishop what size shoe his father wore, but I’m not sure how that helps anything.”

Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade, concerned expression still in place, stepped out of Sherlock’s flat and, with one last worried glance at John, made his way down the stairs. Finally, after the front door downstairs banged shut and they were alone, Sherlock smirked. Smirked! As John stood there shivering and needy and suddenly he was angrier than he could ever remember being. Sherlock had done this to him. He’d been fine before he’d met this man, and now he was transformed into something less than a man. 

John didn’t consciously drop his cane, but he heard it clatter to the floor as he swung his fist and landed one good punch before Sherlock could react properly. He didn’t stop though, he kept swinging and kicking, desperate to inflict as much hurt onto this man as he could. 

Sherlock didn’t attack him back, but grabbed hold of his wrists and tackled John to the ground. His face smashed painfully into the rug, the material scratching at his face as Sherlock settled his weight above him. For such a thin man, he was deceptively heavy. He sat astride John’s thighs, his hands still holding onto John’s wrists, pressing John’s arms into the floor.

With his good leg, John tried to kick at Sherlock’s back. His leg didn’t connect with anything, but he kicked back again and again, his anger fuelling him to keep attacking, despite the fact that he was pinned. 

Sherlock leaned forward and John realised two things at once. One, Sherlock was hard. He could feel the man’s cock pressing into his back. Secondly, Sherlock’s face was close to the back of John’s head and John could butt his head backwards and hit him. John tensed, his body preparing to attack. 

“Stop,” Sherlock whispered, so close to his ear that John could feel the breath in his ear. Part of him wanted to obey, to let his body become lax under Sherlock, but he couldn’t do it. He was a man and he couldn’t just cede control to some stranger.

“Stop,” Sherlock repeated, lifting John’s arm and bringing it round to his back so that the wound in his shoulder seared with pain. John screamed. It hurt so much but Sherlock’s hold on him remained steady as he slowly pulled John’s arm back further. 

“I’m sorry!” John yelled and Sherlock immediately let go of his arm. “I’m sorry,” he babbled again, suddenly mortified and ashamed. What if Sherlock no longer wanted him because John had attacked him? What would he do then? What would he do if Sherlock told him to leave? He’d have to walk down to the street and back to his bedsit, just as frustrated and needy as he had been, but now with no hope of ever getting better. “Please.”

Sherlock got off him faster than John would have thought possible. 

“Get up and follow me,” Sherlock said, already turning and striding away. John followed, panicking. Had he already done something wrong? Would Sherlock send him away for taking too long to return to Baker Street? “Sit.”

John sat down on the old sofa as Sherlock peered at him intently.

“Please what?” Sherlock barked angrily.

John squared his shoulders. He hadn’t really thought about how he would phrase this, he had thought that just coming here would be enough. That Sherlock would just take control again. 

“Please…” John swallowed, ashamed of himself but knowing he was doing what was necessary. “Please don’t send me away.”

Sherlock’s face remained blank, waiting. His shoulders might have relaxed slightly, but John thought that might be his own wishful thinking. 

“I want...what you said before...about coming to an arrangement. If you still want that,” John stuttered, forcing himself to watch Sherlock’s face even as he felt so torn. This was what he had come here for. What he needed. But he hadn’t had to admit it out loud like this before. It was almost a relief to say the words, but that didn’t make it any better. It was both necessary and agonising, like putting stinging antiseptic on a wound. 

Sherlock sat down in the armchair opposite him, but his face was still unreadable. 

“Give me your phone,” Sherlock demanded, extending his hand. John put his phone into an elegant hand. Sherlock typed something into it quickly and John took the silence as an opportunity to study Sherlock without those intense eyes staring back at him. 

Sherlock looked up quickly and caught John staring at him. 

“You went to someone else,” the voice was accusing. 

“I...I thought about it, but, no. I want...to do this with you.”

Sherlock sat back, his fingers steepling. 

“You’re offering yourself to me?”

John licked his lips carefully. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but that was what this was about.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock frowned again and John knew he was being examined and deduced more closely than ever; as if Sherlock had expected him to say no, even though John had come to see him twice now.

“If you seek out anyone else again, if you touch anyone else again, the arrangement will be over. Is that clear?” Sherlock spat, suddenly angry. John nodded dumbly, which seemed to calm Sherlock down. “Now, tell me. Why do you want this?”

“I don’t!” John said quickly. “I mean, I do..want this. But I wouldn’t be here, if...if I wanted a good time. Since the Neutrophin, since the hospital, everything’s changed and I just, I _need_ …”

Sherlock’s eyes tracked his every movement as John waved his hand in the air as he spoke. John’s voice trailed off, he wasn’t sure how to finish his sentence and the silence was heavy with Sherlock’s expectations. 

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asked suddenly, sounding confused. 

“No!” John said with a laugh, ”But there’s no-one else. I don’t really have anyone I trust and definitely no-one I could go to for..for this.”

“I’m going to hurt you, John. I’m going to hurt you a lot. Do you still need this?”

Sherlock leaned forward, his pupils dilated and his face slightly flushed. But, really, there wasn’t any question in John’s mind. He knew he needed this.

“Oh God, yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Strip.”

John blinked, the sudden command taking him by surprise. 

“Here?” John asked nervously, looking around even though he was sure that they were alone in the flat. Sherlock stood quickly and took a step towards John, so that he was standing right in front of him. His trousered crotch was level with John’s face and John couldn’t help but stare at the growing bulge that was almost touching him. 

Sherlock slapped him, his hand striking his cheek and his ear. The force sent John’s head spinning, left his ear ringing and spots of light dancing in front of his eyes. He struggled to remain sitting upright on the sofa. 

“Here.”

John nodded, blinking rapidly to try and see clearly even as he began to take off his clothes. His jacket fell to the sofa behind him, crumpling and going unnoticed as John pulled off his jumper and started unbuttoning his shirt. He shrugged it off and then hesitated. Did Sherlock expect him to take his trousers off as well? Was he expecting him to be completely naked? Of course, he’d been naked in front of men before. He’d been in the army, he’d played rugby at school. He was used to the relaxed atmosphere of the changing room. This was different though. This was stripping naked in order to be examined in the harsh morning light, without any drug in his system compelling him to do so. This was his choice and it was scary.

John stood up and, as he did so, moved closer to Sherlock. The younger man was significantly taller than him. John was used to people being taller, it wasn’t something that had bothered him in years, but somehow their difference in heights affected him now. His hands paused, resting on his belt buckle. He wasn’t sure if he was trembling or not, and he didn’t want to look down to check. 

“Undress completely,” Sherlock voice was so deep and quiet, and it was the only indication that John had that the man was being affected by this situation at all. That voice seemed to slid over his skin and make him shiver. The room wasn’t cold, but there was a mundanity to the whole place that made John feel like what he was doing was wrong and out of place. Outside, he could hear the London traffic continuing on as usual, yet in here John stood, terrified. The belt slipped in his fingers and John had to remind himself that this was he wanted, what he had asked for. 

His trousers slid down to his knees, but Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver from John’s face. This was so different from the way he might stumble through undressing in front of one of his ex-girlfriends. God, he felt like such a pervert. He closed his eyes and pushed his boxers down, kicking his feet slightly so that his trousers and underpants pooled around his ankles. 

He screwed his eyes shut as his heart raced in his chest. Whatever happened next would be up to Sherlock. The silence in the flat was so absolute. John could hear his own ragged breaths and the occasional sound of someone banging around in the flat downstairs. He wished that Sherlock would do something, anything. Just to get on with it. 

His hands were definitely shaking now and he couldn’t wait any longer, he opened his eyes and found Sherlock was still standing in the same place. His eyes were glued to John with the lethal detachment of a scientist watching a specimen. 

“What did I say about repeating myself?”

John’s mind was blank but his shaking stopped abruptly. Sherlock had told him to do something, but he didn’t understand what it was. He had stripped, like he’d been told to do. His shoes and socks were still on, but that was it. Perhaps that was the problem. 

John sat back down on the sofa to untie his shoes. It was hardly a flattering position, but he didn’t feel self-conscious. Sherlock wasn’t his boyfriend, he didn’t have to worry if Sherlock found him attractive or not. 

“Stand up. Go through the kitchen and into the room on the right. Kneel on the bed and wait.”

John stood without thought, but as he walked across the room his nerves returned. The harsh sunlight streamed through the windows and it felt so strange to be walking around someone else’s flat, naked, in the middle of the day. The whole situation was ridiculous. He didn look back as he walked away from Sherlock; finding the bedroom was easy. This room had only one window but John wished they were doing this elsewhere, somewhere darker. Where he would be obscured from Sherlock’s sharp eyes. When Sherlock finally joined him. If Sherlock joined him. 

Time slipped by interminably and John’s anxiety mounted. He could just picture what he looked like; a middle aged man was hardly a thing of beauty, perched on some stranger’s bed. He was making an utter fool of himself, he should just leave with the tattered remains of his self-respect. 

Perhaps this had all been some sick joke for Sherlock. Just to see how far he could push John. Any moment now he was going to come in here and laugh at him. Tell him what he really was, how stupid and ugly he was; crippled and old. He tried to breath deeply, to remind himself what he was doing here, but his whole body was taut, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. He was starting to get cold, his body shaking slightly as his skin pebbled with goosebumps. He had to get out here. He couldn’t bear the tension and the suspense any longer. John shifted minutely. 

Then Sherlock’s hands were pressing onto his chest and John gasped at the sudden touch. He had been so lost in his own head that he hadn’t even heard Sherlock come into the room. He pressed his lips together to silence himself, the only dignity he could muster in this situation was to remain silent. Sherlock’s fingers traced over his skin, sometimes stroking, sometimes pinching at him. He was being examined, John realised abruptly. 

Every flaw on John’s body was revealed and inspected beneath Sherlock’s questing fingers as the man slowly circled John. His attention passing from John’s chest and arms to his back and the scar that Sherlock found there. The scar on John’s back interested him for some time and, although he poked close to it a few times, he did nothing further to agitate it. 

John kept his mouth shut. It shouldn’t matter what Sherlock thought about his body, but he wanted to know. He wanted some kind of feedback. He wanted to be told if he had passed Sherlock’s inspection. 

“You doing so well,” Sherlock said softly, his low voice a gentle breath against John’s ear. He couldn’t help the way that his body reacted. His cock, which had been half hard for so long, gave a twitch and John squared his shoulders as pride blossomed in his chest. He’d been an invalid, a failure, in the eyes of everyone around him for so long, but here, with Sherlock, he was good. He was doing well, and worthy of being praised.

Sherlock stepped back and away from him and John almost wanted to cry out and stop him. This couldn’t be over so soon. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to be weak and he wouldn’t beg someone to touch him, no matter how much he wanted it. He wanted to look up, to implore Sherlock to continue with just the expression on his face, but it was so much easier to keep his eyes on the ground. The sound of a zip being undone broke through the silence and John looked up, startled. 

Before him stood Sherlock, still fully dressed, but with his hard cock poking out of his trousers as he slowly pumped his hand over himself. 

“Come here, John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded less like a command and more like an endearment as John scrambled to obey, kneeling on the carpet in front of Sherlock. He could smell a slight muskiness coming from the man’s crotch. John didn’t think he’d ever been this close to another man’s cock, certainly not another man’s aroused cock. Yet now he was so close that Sherlock could have smacked him in the face with it. 

John licked his lips unconsciously. As cocks went, it looked fine, healthy, uncut, but it didn’t really do anything for him. Yet the idea that this was _Sherlock’s_ cock, that Sherlock had fucked him with this cock, that Sherlock was going to do untold other things to him with this cock, was enough to make his mouth water. 

“Open you mouth, John,” Sherlock’s voice came down from above. John let his mouth swing open and instantly Sherlock pushed his cock inside him. There was no finesse, no gentleness. Sherlock pushed his cock into him, ramming his mouth so that John spluttered. He tried to pull away, he needed to catch his breath, but Sherlock’s hands were in his hair, holding him in place. 

John swallowed around the cock in his mouth and Sherlock pulled out just enough that John could gasp for air through his nose. It wasn’t enough but Sherlock was already pushing his way back into John’s mouth and all he could do was hold his breath until Sherlock decided to move again; decided to let him breath again. John’s eyes stung and he blinked back tears. They streamed down his face but Sherlock didn’t appear to care about that. He forced his cock deeper down John’s throat, so that John’s nose was buried in the man’s pubic hair. He thought he was going to be sick, he could taste the vomit in the back of his mouth. John swallowed again, swallowing the vomit and the tears and opening his mouth wider so that Sherlock could use his mouth. 

Sherlock’s rhythm got faster and faster, grinding against the back of John’s throat painfully. 

John closed his eyes and let himself be used. Sherlock’s orgasm was a surprise. The man groaned and pushed himself even deeper down John’s throat so that John was swallowing Sherlock’s come reflexively as he struggled to breath. He couldn’t even taste it. Sherlock’s hands were on the back of his head and held him so still that John thought he might pass out. His vision was bleary from the tears in his eyes, but now everything began to blacken. 

Finally, Sherlock pulled out, taking his restraining hands from John’s head.

John coughed and gulped back a lungful of air. For as painful and difficult as it had felt, John was almost sad that it was over. Yes, he had struggled to breath, but now it was finished and there was no long lasting damage and he couldn’t really be sure that he hadn’t enjoyed it. That it hadn’t been wonderful. 

Sherlock zipped up his flies, still fully dressed and looking completely unaffected by the situation. John squirmed slightly and the movement made him aware of the carpet burning his knees. He stumbled, his bad knee giving out and he yelled out in agony. He reached out, without thought, to steady himself by holding on to Sherlock’s thighs. The second he touched him, he wondered if he’d done something wrong. Sherlock hadn’t said that he could touch him, but the man didn’t seem to care, so John held on to him, using him for support.

“Touch yourself. Wank. Let me see you come.”

John didn’t know if he could come like this. His cock was hard, and leaking precome, but the idea of sucking Sherlock was so much easier, so much simpler, than coming himself. Then he touched his cock and his worry evaporated. He was so close to coming and all he’d done was wank himself once. He gave his cock another stroke and groaned. This was better than anything he could remember. Better than wanking had ever been, better than any sexual encounter he’d ever had. Because he knew that he was doing well, because he wasn’t with some silent partner who wouldn’t say anything if he mucked up in the bedroom. If he did something wrong then Sherlock would tell him and correct him, which meant that everything he was doing now was correct. John come, one hand still grasping hold of Sherlock’s thigh. His come spurted, some hitting the carpet, some Sherlock’s shoes and trousers. John wondered if he should be embarrassed, but Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John refused to care. His eyes shuttered closed as all the tiredness and restless from the past week caught up with him. 

Sherlock patted his head, as someone might pet a dog, but John was too exhausted to take offense. 

“Sleep, John. You can stay until you’ve rested.”

With that John lay back on to the carpeted floor. He was at peace and he could finally rest without his thoughts buzzing in his head.


	5. Chapter 5

It was still light when John woke up. His back ached from sleeping on the floor and his leg was in agony. What kind of person made someone sleep on the floor? 

John stood awkwardly, leaning on the bed to help himself up. His mind felt clearer than it had in ages. All his restless energy, his confusion and his longing were gone. He felt whole again. 

He hobbled through the kitchen in search of his clothes, clutching at his crotch to cover himself up as he looked around nervously to make sure he was alone. The flat was deserted and John almost felt guilty for being in Sherlock’s home when the man himself was absent. He pulled on his clothes and left as quickly as he could.

John didn’t think he would have minded saying goodbye to Sherlock, but the man hadn’t behaved like John would have thought he would; Sherlock hadn’t done what John had been expecting at all. He groaned to himself in embarrassment as he closed the door to 221b behind him. He’d offered himself to Sherlock! It sounded so corny, but Sherlock hadn’t done anything too weird. 

John had expected Sherlock to behave as he had in the hospital, or even more aggressively, now that he had John’s permission. But what he’d done instead had made John feel so pliant, so centred. 

Of course, John wouldn’t go back to Sherlock. He’d been nearly out of his mind when he’d agreed to offer himself to the man, but, now that he felt normal again, the whole thing seemed ridiculous. He was a soldier, a rugby player, a proper man. And men like him didn’t _submit_. He could be gay, he could admit that he liked to bottom; those things wouldn’t make him weak, but this _submission_ was a step too far. It had been an interesting experiment. John was a man of science, he knew the value of experimenting, but this one was definitely over

John hummed quietly to himself. The walk home felt good; it was nice to stretch out his muscles after sleeping on the hard floor. The cane that he’d been so reliant on seemed almost unnecessary. He felt so good that he even stopped off in the local library and replied to a few emails that had been sitting in his inbox for longer than he cared to think about. He even mentioned that he was thinking about working as a GP to an old colleague of his. 

Even when he got back to his flat, his good mood didn’t evaporate. Instead of turning on the TV and watching the mindless shows that he had no interest in, he put some music on and cooked himself a proper meal. It was only pasta and sauce, but it was the first time he’d made anything more substantial than toast in his little kitchen. He’d been subsisting on a diet of overly salty take away food since he’d got out of hospital. 

He gazed out of his little window, suddenly ashamed of himself. He’d given Sherlock permission to do _anything_ to him. Sherlock had even said that he would hurt him and, although he ultimately hadn’t, it would have been ridiculously easy for Sherlock to do some serious damage to him. He’d put himself in such a dangerous situation, he could barely believe his own recklessness. Oh well, never again.

As the pasta cooked, he turned his little table away from the TV so that when he ate he could watch the sunset over London. It was the best evening that John could remember having in a long time. He felt alive again. 

By the time he got into bed that night, he was able to laugh at himself. He’d behaved like some reckless teenager, not realising the dangers of the situation he’d let himself get into with Sherlock. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. Luckily, he’d never have to think about it ever again. 

The next morning, he had as much energy as he’d had the previous evening. He went shopping; he bought a laptop and some groceries. He spent the afternoon working out how to get online. In the evening he called Harry. There wasn’t much to say to his sister, but John was brimming with energy. Their conversation was short, but as John hung up he was happy. He’d accomplished so much in just one day. He could hardly believe his own ingenuity. 

The next few days were even more productive. He gave out his new phone number to some old friends from medical school and asked them if they knew of any openings for a GP position. He got out of the flat everyday; he went to a museum, he walked in the park, he had his best session yet with Maureen. He read everything he could find on Neutrophin gas; every news report, every medical paper. 

For a few glorious days, he felt free in a way he hadn’t in years. Despite everything that had happened, he was in control of his life and it felt great. The morning he’d spent at Sherlock’s still played on his mind; he was still shocked at his own behaviour, but the more he thought about it, the more annoyed he was with Sherlock. He’d said that Sherlock could hurt him, and what had the man done instead? Just touched him a little bit and then wanted a blowjob. It wasn’t what John had asked for, it was unsatisfactory. 

Not that it mattered now. It wouldn’t be happening again. It just would have been nice if Sherlock had fulfilled his end of the bargain. John wasn’t exactly sure what he would have wanted Sherlock to do, but something about it had definitely been _lacking_. 

Then he got an email from a doctor with a surgery nearby. One of his old colleagues had given her his email address and she wanted to know if he was interested in the position and if he would mind coming in for an interview next week. And that was all it took, John’s whole little world seemed to crumble and he wasn’t even sure why. He should have been excited by the job opportunity, instead he went to bed that night and barely slept. His dreams were haunted by memories of Afghanistan, of losing patients on the operating table, of hidden terrors attacking him in the darkness. He awake surrounded by sheets stickened by sweat from his night terrors. 

John barely recognised the man he saw in the mirror that morning. He looked more tired and drained than he should have after only one night of poor sleep. His leg ached so much that, even with all his weight on resting on his cane, he couldn’t go out for his usual walk. He couldn’t even be bothered to make himself breakfast, he just turned on his TV and tried to let it wash over him. It didn’t help, it wasn’t enough of a distraction. He was sick, he needed help. He wanted to vomit in shame. 

He didn’t answer Dr Sawyer’s email with its offer of a job interview. He couldn’t even bear to turn his laptop on. He’d been so close to being well again, to getting his life back on track and it had all slipped through his fingers. John knew what he had to do. It took him until early evening to pluck up the courage to walk to Baker Street.

* * *

The front door was closed when John got to 221 and John didn’t hesitate to ring the doorbell. To his surprise an older lady answered it and smiled at him cheerfully. John knew he looked rough, there were dark circles under his eyes and he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. He looked more like a junkie than a GP, but the woman didn’t seem to mind. 

“I expect you’re here to see Sherlock, are you, dear?” she said, standing aside to let him in before he’d even answered her. “Upstairs with you, he’s got someone with him at the moment, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“I..er..don’t want to disturb,” John said, gazing desperately up at the door to 221b. The old lady must think he was insane. 

“Oh, he gets all sorts, I can tell you, doesn’t bother me, dearie. Everyone needs a little help from time to time.”

John jerked his head in agreement, as his mind flashed with anger. Was Sherlock doing this with other people? He shouldn’t care. Sherlock wasn’t his _boyfriend!_ He wasn’t even sure he particularly liked Sherlock Holmes. 

“All sorts?” John said, trying to keep the anger from his voice, but, judging by the look woman gave him, he had failed. “Oh, because he’s a detective.”

“Hmm,” the woman cocked her head at him and gave him an odd smile, “That’s right, dear.” She pursed her lips to say something else, but just then the door to 221b flung open. John looked up wildly, but the man standing there was Detective Inspector Lestrade. 

“Dr Watson?” the policeman called out in surprise. 

“Hello again,” John said weakly. This was humiliating. Why was it so difficult to see Sherlock? 

“Off you go then, dearie. I expect I’ll see you later,” the old lady smiled at him and gestured for him to go upstairs before walking away down the hallway. Lestrade eyed him curiously as John made his way up. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Doctor,” Lestrade said, although his tone did nothing to hide his blatant curiosity. “Is Sherlock helping you out?”

John was so surprised he nearly missed a step. Surely Sherlock hadn’t told the police about him? He swallowed heavily, trying to think of a reason he would be visiting Sherlock. 

“Of course, Lestrade,” Sherlock cut in as he appeared behind Lestrade and eyed John coolly. “Dr Watson is having some problems with his alcoholic brother, who is currently getting a divorce.”

John gaped at Sherlock. He hadn’t told him anything about Harry, how had Sherlock guessed? He couldn’t have actually researched John, or he would have known that Harry was his sister. 

“Sorry to hear that,” Lestrade said to John, not looking surprised that Sherlock was giving away John’s personal information. “That doesn’t sound like your usual cup of tea. I wouldn’t have thought that registered on your scale.” Lestrade smirked and John decided he didn’t like Lestrade at all.

“Oh, but this one is quite fascinating,” Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade’s leer. “You’d better get going, your murderer will be at the docks already.”

“Wait, you’re not coming?” Lestrade gasped. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if the policeman had said something distasteful.

“I solved the case, do I have to catch the man for you too? I’ve told you where he’ll be, you should hurry.”

“For fucks -” Lestrade muttered, pulling out a phone, typing furiously and putting it to his ear. “Fine, but I expect you to actually write that report. Donovan!” Lestrade barked into his phone as he strode down the stairs. “Where are you now? We need - ”

The front door slammed behind the yelling detective leaving Sherlock and John alone. 

“How did you know about Harry?”

Sherlock shrugged and stood aside so that there was space for John to slip into his flat. John didn’t move.

“No, seriously. How did you know all that?”

Sherlock gave a put upon sigh. 

“It’s not impressive once you know how its done. Your phone. It’s new, but well worn. Scratched from someone mistreating it; an alcoholic by the pattern of scratches. Why give away a new phone? A gift from someone you no longer want to be reminded of. That, and the inscription on the back. _Harry Watson from Clara XXX._ It was your alcoholic brother’s phone, he has now broken up with Clara and doesn’t want to use that phone. The divorce was, I admit, a guess, but Lestrade would have been suspicious if it was just a break up.”

“That’s amazing,” John said, blinking in astonishment. Sherlock gave him an odd look but didn’t comment.

“In,” Sherlock commanded, tilting his head towards the flat. John limped past him, into the familiar hallway and heard the door slam shut behind him. His spine tingled with fear and he shuddered to repress the urge to turn around and flee.

Without any instructions, John kept walking until he found himself in Sherlock’s sitting room. It looked even messier than it had before, with piles of paper strewn across the floor.

“You returned,” Sherlock sounded smug and so conceited that John almost wished he hadn’t come. “Look at you, so desperate.”

John felt a sharp kick to the back of his good knee and he was sent sprawling to the ground, face first. He managed to drop his cane and get his hands up just in time to stop his nose from smashing into the carpet, but he couldn’t get up because, just then, he felt the cold push of Sherlock’s shoe on the back of his neck.

“So needy that you can barely sleep at night,” Sherlock’s foot pulled away and John pushed himself off the ground slightly as he struggled to get up. He was only a few centimetres up when Sherlock’s foot pressed back down heavily, forcing John’s face into the carpet. It burned slightly, but John didn’t even register the sensation. He was entirely pinned in place. 

“You come here, expecting me to fix you, as if I were the prostitute whose number is still in your phone. But you forget,” Sherlock pushed down harder, aiming his foot so John had to gulp down air. “You gave yourself to _me_ , you forget that _I_ am in the one in control here.”


	6. Chapter 6

“No! No!” John gasped out, struggling for air around Sherlock’s shoe, He needed to explain himself more than he need air. Sherlock released him instantly but John didn’t try to get up again. ”I’m sorry. I swear, I don’t think of you that way. Please, please help me. I just...I didn’t know what I needed.”

John’s mouth snapped shut and he pressed his eyes closed. He would not beg, he would not cry. He wouldn’t not be weak, but he couldn’t imagine anything worse than Sherlock sending him away.

“‘Hush, John. I will teach you your place. And then, once you have learnt your lesson,” Sherlock’s shoe pressed down him once again, harder than before and then was gone from John’s neck. “You will be forgiven.” 

John opened his eyes as relief surged through him. He was going to get what he needed and then he would be better. But his was relief was short lived. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, not quite fear but not excitement. _Trepidation._ Sherlock might do anything to him. He should have set some limits on what Sherlock could do, or insisted on a safeword, but now it was too late. He whimpered, the noise so unmanly and shameful that John wanted to just stay lying on the ground and pretend that it hadn’t come from him. 

“Stand up and takes your clothes off,” Sherlock’s voice cut through all his worries. 

John hurried to his feet, his bad knee holding up well as he tried to move as quickly as possible. He let his clothes fall to the ground as he undressed swiftly. They pooled around him, but he didn’t give them a second though. His cane was buried by his clothes, but he didn’t need it if he was going to be standing still. 

“Go and stand in that corner. Face the wall.”

John didn’t move. He wasn’t some naughty schoolboy to be sent to the corner and ignored. This wasn’t a physical pain that he would ground him; this was just humiliating. But if he refused then Sherlock might make him leave. The corner was far enough back from the window that no-one in the street would be able to see him, and tucked away enough that there was no chance that anyone in the building opposite would see him. 

Sherlock slapped him hard across the face. The force of it made John stagger, but he remained on his feet. 

“Obey me, or leave.”

John almost ran to the corner of the room, watching Sherlock for any hint of what was to come next. 

“Turn around.”

John turned, slowly, so that all he could see was Sherlock’s hideous flock wallpaper. He was so vulnerable; naked and ashamed as he waited for whatever Sherlock wanted to do with him next. His heart was racing in his chest and his breath sounded so loud that he could barely hear whatever Sherlock was doing behind him. He tried to calm down, to pace himself and breath more slowly.

Nothing happened. He had no idea how long he was going to have to stand here, or how long it had already been. He put all of his weight on his god leg and resisted the urge to fidget. 

“Come,” Sherlock suddenly called out. He turned to face the man but John’s eyes locked on what Sherlock was carrying. It was a riding crop. Surely he didn’t intend to use that him?

Sherlock turned and left the room, going up a flight of stairs that John hadn’t even noticed before. John was far too busy thinking that riding crop than to worry about the layout of Sherlock’s flat. He led them to a second bedroom that was obviously unused; there was a musty, stale smell in the air. John couldn’t stop himself front staring at the riding crop in Sherlock’s hands, the way the black leather moved as Sherlock walked. If Sherlock used that one him, as he surely would, then it would really hurt. Not the stinging pain of being slapped, this would be a step beyond that. But then, that was what he was here for, wasn’t it? He knew he was being obvious as he eyed the riding crop, not bothering to hide his apprehension. 

“Go on then, lie down on the bed.”

“Yeah,” John swallowed, but he didn’t hesitate to obey this time. He lay face down on his stomach; like this he couldn’t see what Sherlock was doing and he wasn’t sure if that was a relief or not.

Something cold and inhumane touched his back. John jumped before he realised what was happening. Sherlock was slowly stroking the tip of the riding crop along his back. It made John’s breath stutter. Surely Sherlock was going to do more than this? The waiting was interminable. Every time the riding crop was lifted from his back, he expected a blow to fall. But it didn’t. Sherlock was being so gentle with it that John wanted to scream. He wanted the pain to start now, just to get it over with. 

“Argh!” John yelled, as Sherlock hit his back with the crop. It was so unexpected but it was such a relief. It stung, but it was bearable. Sherlock struck him again, and this time, as John was expecting it, he didn’t make any noise. The riding crop came down again and again. It hurt, it did, but it wasn’t enough. Everytime the crop hit him, he wished that Sherlock had been just a little bit more forceful. This wasn’t what he had been craving, this didn’t give him the sense of peace that he had been craving. The sting of each blow frustrated him so much that he thought he might scream to release his tension, even though he had stopped himself from screaming in pain.

“Oh, John. You waited so long before coming to see me again. You made yourself quite, quite ill,” Sherlock’s voice sounded almost gleeful.

The riding crop swished in the air and John could hear that it was making a different sound as it swung through the air. It struck his back with a jolt, more forcefully than any of the previous blows. John couldn’t hold back his scream this time.

Sherlock hit him again, raining down blow after blow. The previous strikes had been gentle caresses compared to this. This was excruciating pain, each blow coming so quickly that John’s screams of agony becoming one continuous yell. 

He was going to pass out from the pain. He was nothing but pain. There was no other thought in his head but the way that Sherlock was making him feel. Everything else ceased to exist because all of his body was pain. He wanted it stop, it hurt so much; but he never wanted it to stop, because stopping meant going back to reality and leaving this place. Here there was only pain and it was so beautifully _simple._

One last blow fell and then nothing. John didn’t move or make a sound. He waited, ready for more, but it didn’t come. 

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now,” Sherlock said breathlessly. The riding crop clattered as Sherlock let it fall to the ground. 

It was over. He should move, he should examine his back and see if it was as bloody as John assumed it must, invariably, be. But he couldn’t move, because moving required thought, and John was just sensation now. The stale bed sheets that pressed against his face. The cool air on his hot, painful back. The serenity of relaxed muscles. It was blissful.

Cold fingers touched his back; Sherlock’s fingers trailed down his spine and meandered across his backside. John flinched involuntarily. The gentle strokes felt like kisses on his abused skin and it was too much. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes and he couldn’t hold them back. John buried his face back into the bed but he knew it was obvious that he was crying. He sniffed quietly, trying to be as silent as possible but he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. He wasn’t even upset, yet he was no more capable of stopping his tears than of staunching the blood that he imagined was flowing from his back. 

“I’d like to fuck you again, but you’re hardly in any state for that,” Sherlock poked his finger into the scar on John’s back, making him gasp in surprise and pain. For all Sherlock’s beating, he’d left the injury alone up until then. “You worked yourself up into a state before you bothered coming to me. Don’t let it happen again.”

John nodded into the bedding. His body felt so loose, so relaxed that he wasn’t sure how he was going to stand up, but he knew it was time to leave. 

“Thank you, sir,” John said, the words slipping out without thought. 

Sherlock stopped moving but John didn’t look round. He didn’t like Sherlock, they weren’t friends. It didn’t matter what Sherlock thought of him, as long as he did what John needed. It was freeing, to not care about whether he was being polite, or what someone thought of him. He could just be himself, and Sherlock didn’t seem to care. 

“Yes, well. Your clothes are downstairs. Hurry up and get dressed. I have…” John lifted himself from the bed and saw the man was staring at his back with an expression of deep disgust on his face. The look vanished swiftly. “I have an experiment going and I can’t afford to leave it any longer.”

With that he stomped from the bedroom leaving John to sit up slowly. Sherlock had told him to hurry up and he was moving as quickly as he could but it still took him a few minutes to get downstairs. His back throbbed everytime he moved.

He had to pass through the kitchen on his way to get his clothes. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen table, his eyes glued to a microscope and what looked to John more like a pile of clutter than an experiment on the table in front of him. Sherlock ignored him as he walked past.

John pulled on his wrinkled clothes. He was sure that he was staining the back of his shirt with blood, but luckily he had been wearing a dark jumper, so any blood that seeped through would be nicely hidden. His eyes still felt bloodshot from crying, but there was nothing he could do about that. He wiped his hands across his eyes a few times, mopping up any stray tears. When he removed his hand from his eyes, he saw that Sherlock was no longer busy with his experiment; he was leaning casually against the wall. It struck John again how beautiful Sherlock was, how elegant. Despite all they had done upstairs, Sherlock looked just as he had when John had first arrived; his tight shirt and tailored trousers looked immaculate, as if Sherlock were entirely removed from what had happened. 

“Be back here in two day’s time,” Sherlock said blankly, but John knew it was a command.

“Yes.”

“Take a taxi home and go straight to bed. You need more rest.”

“Yes,” John repeated, it felt odd to give such monosyllabic answers, but he was in no mood to care and Sherlock didn’t seem to expect anything more of him. John didn’t say anything else, he just turned and left. He didn’t usually take taxis, they were an indulgence he could ill afford, but Sherlock had told him to do it and he doubted he would have been able to walk all the way home anyway. 

John curled up in bed as soon as he got back to the bedsit. It was only just getting dark and he hadn’t checked his back injuries but none of that mattered. He was exhausted and now he could let go. John sighed in contentment as he snuggled into his pillow and tried to remember what each blow of the riding crop had felt like.


	7. Chapter 7

There was no blood on his sheets, which was a surprise as his back throbbed everytime he moved. He strained and twisted in front of the bathroom mirror to catch a glimpse of his injuries. Red marks and welts lined his back in neat rows that would last for days.The idea gave John a thrill of pleasure that he didn’t want to analyse. John hadn’t felt the pattern as Sherlock had struck him, but now he could see it and it was oddly beautiful. A lasting reminder of what Sherlock had done to him, of the care that Sherlock had taken, that felt nicely grounding. 

He examined his back as carefully as he could, but when he straightened up, he couldn’t look himself in the eyes. 

John made himself some tea and emailed Dr Sawyer to say he was interested in the job offer before he had even made himself breakfast. All his energy had returned and he didn’t even feel annoyed when he realised he had an appointment with his therapist that afternoon. Instead, he took his laptop to a cafe and wrote up his CV as he sat outside in the sunshine. It wasn’t the sweltering heat of the Afghan sun, but it was pleasantly warm. And later, when a car back-fired near him, he only startled a little. He only thought of IEDs and gunfire and the blood of his patients seeping away, for a second before he laughed at himself and went back to writing his CV.

* * *

“You’re looking very well, John. Would you like to tell me about your week?” Ella asked, her face blankly professional. 

“I’ve got a job interview next week. If I get it, then I won’t be able to come to these sessions anymore.”

“We’re here to make you feel better, John. If you don’t feel you need these sessions in order to feel better, then there would be no need to continue them. Is that how you feel?”

“Yeah, I have been feeling better,” John cleared his throat loudly. Ella’s words struck a chord with him. A person had to do what made them feel well. He’d take a drug if he was ill. He saw a therapist when his problem was psychological. Was that any different from what he was doing with Sherlock? He had a condition and going to see Sherlock made him feel better. He wouldn’t be ashamed of that, even if the name of that condition made him feel so weak; _submissive._

“Yes?” Ella’s question broke John from his reverie, as she urged him to continue.

“I met someone,” John said hurriedly. Ella gave him a frown and made a hasty note on her pad.

“Do you think you’re ready for a relationship, John?”

“Oh no! No, it’s not like that! It’s just,” John shuddered at the idea of being in a relationship with Sherlock. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her that he was still meeting up with the man he’d had sex with during the Neutrophin attack. She’d have him sectioned. But then, how could he describe what was going on with Sherlock? They certainly weren’t friends. “Just a man who I can relax around. It’s not _like that_. It’s not a _relationship_.”

Ella nodded but still looked worried.

“Remember you can always come back and talk to me anytime. Even if you want to end our sessions now, you can always restart them later.”

John nodded thankfully, glad that he would never have to come back to this awful little room. The therapy had been voluntary, but John knew it hadn’t helped. Now he had Sherlock and that worked so well that he didn’t need Ella at all.

* * *

Sherlock had told him to come back in two days time, but that was horrendously vague. After hours of agonising, John decided to go to Baker Street at the same time as he had last time; early evening. By lunchtime, he was already jittery. 

He got an email back from Dr Sawyer, setting up an interview. He tried to answer it, but his thoughts were too scattered and nothing he wrote sounded right. Instead, he paced the flat, looking at the clock each time he turned and willing it to go faster. Something was terribly wrong. The first time he’d gone to see Sherlock he’d felt fine for days afterwards, but now he could barely make it two days. 

It was like a drug and John couldn’t afford to build up an immunity to it. The idea was terrifying. What if he went to Sherlock, and submitted to him, and that wasn’t enough? What if he went but it didn’t calm his mind and he was left just as feverish and raw as he was now?

Finally, it was time and John set off as quickly as he could, his bad knee more painful than it had ever been. As he walked past a payphone, he heard it ring. It was strange but hardly any concern of John’s, he was in too much of a hurry. He thought he heard other phones ring too as he walked passed them; but he was too desperate to get to Sherlock to pay them any attention. 

John was just stepping off the pavement to cross the road when a large, black car pulled up in front of him, barring his path. The back door swung open to reveal a woman staring at her phone. John gave an annoyed sigh and started to walk around the car. He was suddenly terribly worried about being late, even though Sherlock hadn’t specified a time. 

“Get in,” the blonde called out, not even looking up from her phone. John bristled angrily and gave her a dubious look as he took a step backwards. He wasn’t about to get into a strange car and be taken god-knows-where. He certainly wasn’t going to be ordered around; not unless it was Sherlock giving the orders. He took another step backwards. 

“Dr Watson,” the woman looked up with an expression of extreme annoyance on her face. “Mr Holmes sent a car for you.”

John blinked at her. It seemed very unlikely that Sherlock would have done something like that. But then, how else would this woman have known his name? Or Sherlock’s?

“I’m nearly there now,” John said plaintively. It was still a good fifteen minutes walk from here to Baker Street. The woman shrugged and went back to her phone. John gave one last unsure glance up the road before sliding into the car and shutting the door behind him. The car glided out and John stared out of the window to make sure that they were taking the fastest route possible to Baker Street. Not that he was really sure he knew the fastest route by car, he was used to walking there. The glass was heavily tinted and he could barely make anything out, it was frustrating. John’s knee bounced agitatedly as he waited to get to Sherlock. 

The drive stretched on and the only noise was the soft tapping of the woman as played with her phone. It seemed to go on forever. John was sure that it would have been faster if he’d just walked. Finally, the car pulled to a stop and John yanked the door open. He jumped out, ready to knock on the door of 221, but he wasn’t in Baker Street. In fact, he wasn’t on any street. The car had driven inside a large, deserted warehouse. The lights hadn’t been turned on, and John could only see by the evening sunlight streaming through the high up windows. 

Standing in the middle of the warehouse, a short distance from the parked car, was a man in a tailored suit leaning heavily on his umbrella. He was standing in a patch of light, but there were long shadows all around him.

Behind him, the car door slammed shut and the car drove away, soon disappearing into a darkened corner. John had no idea what was going on, but it was clear that he’d been brought here to meet this man. 

“Ah, Dr Watson, thank you for joining me,” the man called out as John limped towards him.

“Well I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

“No, I suppose not,” the man smiled slightly, completely unapologetically, as he stopped leaning on his umbrella, and John realised that this man was nowhere near as infirm as he had appeared at first glance. “I wanted to have a little word with you about Sherlock. I was so glad that you decided not to press charges after the Neutrophin attack, it would have led to such a _messy_ situation,” the man said, with a significant look, although John had no idea what it meant.

“I did what I thought was right,” John said cautiously. The man seemed to radiate an aura of smugness that set John’s teeth on edge. He wished he could think more clearly, he wished he felt as serene as he had when he’d left Sherlock’s the other day. 

“Hmm. And now you are continuing your relationship with Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” John blustered. The man smiled greasily, as if he could see John’s internal struggle. 

“A concerned party.”

“Concerned? About Sherlock?” John asked, bewildered. Sherlock seemed like such an unstoppable force, so grounded and in control, that it was amazing to John that anyone would be concerned about him.

“Naturally. Sherlock…” the man paused and gave John a curiously blank look that almost reminded him of Sherlock. “Has spent the last decade telling anyone who was interested that he was asexual.” John frowned slightly. His body was littered with the evidence that Sherlock was definitely not asexual, but he had no wish to discuss the matter with this stranger. 

“I see you are confused, but is it really so hard to understand? He had a most illuminating relationship when he was in university, after which he concluded that there was a side of himself that was...distasteful. That it would be better if that side of him was locked away forever.”

“I can’t see how that is any of your business.”

“No, perhaps that isn’t. But what he did next was most decidedly my business,” the man pursed his lips, his expression so sad that if he hadn’t been John’s abductor, he might have felt sorry for him. “I worry about Sherlock, constantly. And now,” the man’s fingers tapped lightly on his cane. “Now, there is the problem of you. Of course, I understand that the current situation is satisfactory for all concerned. I admit that I hesitated to involve myself, Sherlock is a grown man and, if your relationship was less torrid, I doubt we would have ever met. As things stand, I wanted to warn you. I will not stand to see my brother harmed, do you understand, Doctor?”

John blink incredulously. 

“Sherlock is your brother? You kidnapped me to, to what? Tell me not to break your brother’s heart?” John giggled. The idea was so preposterous that he couldn’t stop himself. Sherlock was so removed from everything they did together, so in control, that the idea that he could effect Sherlock, that it was possible for him to hurt Sherlock was just laughable.

“Perhaps,” the man said stiffly, “I am not making myself clear. It was the work of moments to bring you here, Doctor; isolated and alone, where anything could happen to you. Now imagine what the consequences would be if I found you had been toying with my brother’s affections.”

John felt a smile tug at his lips. He should be scared, he knew he should be. But the way that Sherlock’s brother was speaking about such an incongruous idea was making it difficult for him to keep a straight face. If he started laughing now he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop, there was a pulling at the edge of his mind. The tension and the fever warping into hysteria and he needed Sherlock.

“I’m supposed to be with him now,” John said, instead of answering, but apparently it was enough to satisfy the man. He gave a small wave of his hand and John heard a car engine started. Finally, he was going to be taken to Sherlock.


End file.
